Re-enter Fu-Manchu

by Sax Rohmer

  Silence.

  And this almost unbearable silence remained unbroken until a very slight creaking disturbed it—and the slit of light shining in from the hall began to grow wider.

  Brian shot up from his chair. “Who’s there?” he challenged.

  A man came in and closed the door. It was Nayland Smith.

  He wore a light topcoat with the collar turned up and a soft-brimmed hat, the brim pulled down. Brian sprang to meet him.

  “Sir Denis! At last!”

  “One moment, Merrick. Wait till I get to the window and then switch the lights off.” He crossed the room. “Lights out!”

  Brian, utterly confused, obeyed the snappy order. Complete darkness came, until it was dispersed by faint streaks of light as Nayland Smith moved the slats of the Venetian blind.

  “What’s, the idea?” Brian asked.

  “Lights up. Wanted to know if you’re overlooked.” The room became illuminated again. “We’re dealing with clever people who mean to stop us, and I’m Target Number One. Ha! Scotch! Just what I need.”

  He dropped, his coat and hat on the carpet beside a cane chair and started to sit down. Then, as an afterthought, he stretched out his hand.

  “Glad to see you, Merrick. How’s your father?”

  Brian grinned as he grasped the extended hand. This was the Nayland Smith he remembered, and yet, in some way, a changed Nayland Smith. His snappy, erratic style of speech, sometimes so disconcerting, remained the same as ever. The change was in his expression. He had the kind of tan that never completely wears off, but through it Brian seemed to see that he had become unhealthily pale. His features, too, were almost haggard, and he wore a thin strip of surgical plaster across the bridge of his nose.

  As he mixed two stiff drinks, Brian said, “My father is well, thank you, and sends his best wishes. But I’m told you have been a sick man, Sir Denis.”

  “Right. Do I look it?”

  “You look fit enough now, but I can see you’ve been through a tough time.”

  “I owe my life, Merrick, to the Seyyîd Mohammed. The man’s a master physician. Lucky for me I knew him. Those devils were hard on my heels when I got to his house. They’d penetrated my disguise, you see.”

  Brian handed him his drink and sat down facing him.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see, Sir Denis. I’ve been walking in circles ever since I was selected for this job. I don’t know what I have to do. I don’t know what you’re up against. I’m honored and delighted to be with you, whatever the game may be, but I do want very much to know what it’s all about. Peter Wellingham wouldn’t tell me. I wouldn’t have taken the job if I hadn’t happened to know you already.”

  Nayland Smith, who wore gray flannel trousers and an old sports jacket, pulled out from one of the large pockets an outsize tobacco pouch and began to stuff some rough-cut mixture into the bowl of a very charred brier pipe.

  “Then it’s good you did,” he said. “Wellingham couldn’t tell you much because he doesn’t know much. The fewer people who know about this, the better. First, you might like to know how I got in? Service entrance. Walked up the stairs.”

  “Why?”

  “He knows you’re here to join me, Merrick.”

  “He? Who’s he?”

  “Dr. Fu Manchu. You’ve heard me talk to your father about him. He’s the biggest menace the Western world has ever had to cope with. He has the brain of a genius and the soul of Satan. He’s stronger today than he ever was. His agents are everywhere, in every corner of the world. This building is certainly covered. So are you. Either one of us might disappear tonight!”

  “Good God!”

  “It’s a fact. I can’t show myself in Cairo till I’ve got in touch with the British authorities. So far they don’t know I’m here. After that, we’ll both have official protection. Abdul Ahmad is an old worker of mine. He’s sworn to secrecy. So is the Seyyîd Mohammed.”

  He dropped the pouch back in his pocket and lighted his pipe. Brian stared.

  “This is a deeper mystery than ever, Sir Denis. You were on your way back from the Far East, I guess—”

  Nayland Smith shook his head. “East Berlin.”

  “Berlin! Then whatever brought you to Cairo?”

  “I wasn’t alone, Merrick. The man I had rescued from behind the Iron Curtain was with me. My mission was financed by Washington. United States agents had reported that Dr. Otto Hessian, the world-famous physicist, was held a prisoner, working under compulsion on an invention calculated to end nuclear warfare.”

  “Didn’t England want him?”

  “His results will be shared by both governments. We got into France. I planned to cross the sea from Le Havre to New York. In fact, we were on our way to the Liberte’s dock when a car passed our cab going the same way.”

  Nayland Smith’s pipe went out. He stopped to relight it.

  “Yes?” Brian spoke excitedly.

  “There was only one passenger in the car. It was Dr. Fu Manchu.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Enthralled by all he had heard, and awed by the responsibility that he had been chosen to share with Sir Denis, Brian was about to speak when Nayland Smith raised his hand.

  “Ssh. Listen!”

  He seemed to be watching the closed door. Brian watched it, too. But he saw and heard nothing.

  “What?”

  “Wait a moment. I may be wrong, but…”

  Nayland Smith moved quietly across the room until he could press his ear to a panel of the door. Then, very gently, he opened it and looked out. He closed it again silently and came back.

  “Too late. There was certainly someone there. Let’s hope they don’t know I’m here! I must be brief, but I want to bring you up to date. We doubled back to Paris and flew to Cairo. Dr. Hessian needed rest, facilities, and safety to complete his plans for a laboratory demonstration. I knew he could find all this with the Seyyîd Mohammed. Also, I was rather shaken. As you see”—he touched his nose—“Had a spot of trouble in Berlin.”

  The phone rang.

  “Be careful!” Nayland Smith warned as Brian took the call.

  It was Zoe.

  “Brian dear, I can only speak for a moment. But I do not have to leave Cairo for another week! Are you glad?”

  “Very glad indeed.”

  “I will call you in the morning.”

  With the sound of a kiss, Zoe hung up. Brian turned and met a quizzical stare from Nayland Smith.

  “Evidently a lady,” he snapped in his dry fashion.

  Brian grinned rather guiltily. “As a matter of fact, Sir Denis, it was someone you know. Zoe Montero.”

  Nayland Smith smiled. It wasn’t quite the boyish smile that Brian seemed to remember, but he had to allow for the fact that Sir Denis had obviously been through hell, although he treated his troubles lightly.

  “Little Zoe? Her uncle and I became close friends some years ago when I was up in Luxor. She’s a sweet little girl, and I know she’s safe with you. And now I must be off.” He stooped, picked up his coat and hat, and put them on. “Never go out alone, Merrick. And lock your door at night.”

  “I’ll go down with you, Sir Denis.”

  “Not on your life! You’re the last man in Cairo I want to be seen with. Look—walk along to the lift, and when you get there, just open the door opposite—the one with a red light above it—and make sure there’s nobody on the stair. If all’s clear, pretend to press the bell for the lift, and don’t pay any attention to me when I go by you. A last word—don’t worry if you hear nothing from me for a day or two. And for heaven’s sake, don’t attempt to contact me. Enjoy yourself with Zoe. She doesn’t know you’re working with me?”

  “I never told her so.”

  “Never do! Good night.”

  When Nayland Smith had gone in his mysterious way, Brian sat down to try to get these new developments into focus.

  One thing was crystal clear: he had let himself in for quite a job. He was up to his ears in an
international intrigue that obviously involved the whole Western world. He thrilled to the prospect, but he asked himself if he felt competent to go through with it. Something more than mere physical courage was called for.

  Did he possess those extra qualities? And was he justified in taking it for granted that he did when nothing in his life to date had given him an opportunity to find out?

  He believed he had a fairly good brain, but he wasn’t vain enough to pretend that it was a first-class brain. Yet, according to Nayland Smith, he was soon to find himself in the ring against an opponent who had the brain of a criminal genius. In such a contest, of what use could he be to Sir Denis?

  Evidently Peter Wellingham had decided that he was the very man Sir Denis was looking for, so that, although he didn’t recognize the fact, he must possess some qualification that was necessary.

  What could it be?

  So far he had been asked to do nothing. He wondered how long that state of affairs would have lasted if he hadn’t blundered upon Sir Denis’ hiding place.

  And now it appeared he had carte blanche to do as he pleased for the next few days. Yet Nayland Smith had warned him that his every move was covered.

  Brian took another drink.

  He decided that if he were to prove a success as a secret agent, he must learn to control his hasty judgments. Men engaged in such perilous work were sure to move in an aura of mystery, for danger surrounded them. Making a bad beginning by distrusting Peter Wellingham, he had transferred his doubts to Lola, who had nothing to do with the matter, then to Ahmad, and finally to little Zoe.

  Thinking of Zoe reminded him of the fact that he owed her a new dress. He would take her out shopping in the morning. Then they would lunch at Mena House and visit the Great Pyramid, an old ambition of Brian’s.

  He hoped she would call him when she got back, or better still, come to his room. He settled down to write a report to his father of his first meeting here with Sir Denis Nayland Smith and his impressions of that remarkable man.

  Midnight drew near before the long letter was finished, and Brian felt very sleepy. Zoe hadn’t called, and he settled for a final drink and bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.

  Perhaps, as he thought afterwards, it was his concentration on the character and strange life of Sir Denis while he was writing the letter that caused him to have such a singular and very disturbing dream.

  He found himself in a state of unaccountable and helpless panic, incapable of movement or speech. It was a condition he had never experienced in reality, and for that reason was all the more horrible. Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the room in which he, Brian, had interviewed the Sherîf Mohammed, exactly as he had seen him from the roof of the neighboring building. But, in the dream, Brian was in the room too, and could hear as well as see. And the first sound he heard came from behind the iron grille high in one wall. It was a strange, harsh, but dreadfully compelling voice:

  “You have crossed my path once too often, Sir Denis. The time has come for me to order, for you to obey.”

  The vision faded. Brian was in Zoe’s arms. “Brian!” she whispered, trembling. “Brian, listen to me! Leave here at once. I love you, but you must go. Promise me you will go!” But he couldn’t utter a word. He was dumb with fright. Then the harsh voice came again. “Do you dare to forget who is your master?” Some unseen force dragged Zoe away. “Brian!” he heard. “Brian! Answer me!”

  And Nayland Smith was there again, not in the lofty saloon, but in a small room, stone-paved, like a dungeon. He was chained by his ankle to a staple in the stone wall. Haggard eyes watched Brian.

  “Don’t do it, Merrick. Give me your word.”

  And Brian could only gasp, mumble. Not one word could he utter.

  A sound of banging reached him. He couldn’t move. He was no longer in the stone cell. He was lying in darkness so complete that a ghastly idea crossed his mind: he had been buried alive!

  The banging went on. Someone was trying to break into his tomb. A voice came faintly, from a long way off: “Brian! Brian! Are you there? Answer me.”

  It was Zoe. Still he was unable to make a sound. The banging faded.

  That frightful oppression seemed to be lifting. He found he could move; he stretched out his arm. And in doing so he nearly upset the reading lamp. He was in bed!

  He switched on the light, got up, and ran to the door, which he had forgotten to lock. That banging sound and Zoe’s voice still echoed in his ears. He opened the door and looked out. There was no one there.

  His wrist watch recorded three a.m. His pajama jacket was damp with cold perspiration.

  He fell asleep again analyzing this strange nightmare while it was still fresh in his memory. And finally he read it to be a sort of panorama of the half-submerged doubts and fears that had haunted him so long. He saw them now as myths of his imagination, but while they had been present in his mind they were as real as the horrors of the dream.

  The next time he woke up, blazing Egyptian sunshine was peering in through the slats of the window blinds, and he could hear the familiar noises of the busy street below his balcony. The terrors of the night were finally dispersed by a cold shower.

  While he drank his coffee and enjoyed the first cigarette, he called Zoe. She answered at once, and he thought her voice sounded rather listless.

  “You were out disgracefully late,” he told her with mock severity.

  He heard her laugh. “It is true, Brian. But it was not the gay time you think. There is so much family trouble to talk about. My poor Aunt Isobel, my father’s sister, has been very ill. She cannot have me yet at Luxor, although she is getting better. I told you last night that I am to stay here a while. Are you glad?”

  “Of course I’m glad, dear! Very glad. Listen. Are you free for lunch? Because I want you to lunch with me at Mena House and then go and explore the Great Pyramid. O.K.?”

  “O.K., Brian! When shall I be ready?”

  “Is eleven-thirty too early?”

  “No. Downstairs at eleven-thirty.”

  And at eleven-thirty Zoe came down to the lounge wearing a cream dress that left her arms and shoulders bare. They were slightly sun-tanned. A large sun hat shaded her face, and she looked even more lovely than usual.

  The drive out to Gizeh was all too short. He held her close in the near privacy of the cab, and this morning, for some mysterious reason, Zoe thrilled him in a new way.

  They had some drinks in the Mena House bar and then went in to a cold luncheon. Afterwards they took their coffee out in the garden, choosing a shady table near the flower-draped wall overlooking the road.

  Zoe became strangely pensive. Several times Brian caught her glancing at him furtively, as if wanting to tell him something that she hesitated to put into words.

  “Zoe,” he said uneasily, “Something’s bothering you. Tell me what it is.”

  Still she hesitated, glancing around as if she was afraid of being overheard. Brian reached across and took both of her hands. “Tell me, Zoe. What is it?”

  “It is something very, very hard to say, Brian.”

  He had an uneasy moment. “You don’t mean—you don’t want to see me any more?”

  She shook her head. “It is not as you think, Brian. I want to see you always. It is that I have to ask you something that breaks my heart, but for your sake I must ask.”

  Brian became really alarmed by her earnestness. Her wonderful eyes were so bright that he knew tears were not far away. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  “I mean—” she paused, as if seeking the right words. “I mean that, although it will be terrible for me if—someone—finds out what I have done, I must warn you, Brian. You are in very, very great danger. Soon it will be too late; I hate to say it, but, please—oh, please!—leave Cairo at once. Tonight, if you can.”

  This incomprehensible request so completely baffled Brian that for some moments he could think of no reply. Part of his dream had come true. Zoe had turned her eyes asi
de, but tears were gathering on her long, dark lashes; her hands, which he held tightly, were shaking.

  He wondered if she had seen Nayland Smith since he had seen him, if it could be something Sir Denis had told her that accounted for her present state of mind. Then it occurred to him that it was odd she hadn’t asked him about Sir Denis’ visit, for he remembered telling her he expected him. He wasn’t dreaming now, yet all this had happened before.

  “This would mean—if I did it—that we shouldn’t see each other again?” He spoke in a toneless voice, trying to think.

  Zoe didn’t answer. She suddenly dragged her hands away. Her eyes were wide with terror. She pointed to the low wall beside which they sat “Brian!” she whispered. “Down there—I heard someone move!”

  Brian sprang up. He leaned over the wall and looked down. Zoe was right.

  A ragged old mendicant sat on the dusty road, his back propped against the wall, immediately below their table.

  “Hi, you! What are you doing down there?” Brian shouted.

  A skinny, dirty hand was stretched out. “Bakshîsh—bakshîsh!”

  Brian caught his breath. He leaned farther over. “Let me have a look at you.”

  The old beggar looked up. One glance was enough.

  He saw the man who had been seated beside the door of the office building in Sharia Abdin when Brian came out after his useless search for Mr. Ahmad—the man who had been holding open the cab door when he directed the driver to take him to the house of the Sherîf Mohammed.

  Brian could no longer doubt that he was closely covered, and in all probability had been from the moment of his arrival in Cairo. He had been right about this all along, but had suspected the wrong persons.

  Nayland Smith knew, for Nayland Smith had warned him. And clearly Zoe knew of his danger. How she had come to know he couldn’t imagine. But she was evidently aware of the fact that in urging him to run for it, she herself might become enmeshed.

  Here were very troubled waters; for whatever might be the source of her information, whatever underlay her queer reticence, that Zoe’s warning had been desperately sincere he couldn’t doubt. She was in a state of terror, and first he must do his best to reassure her about the eavesdropper.